


(featherlight) String Theory

by Amodelofefficiency



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amodelofefficiency/pseuds/Amodelofefficiency
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Possibility is infinite. Or, five realities Will and Mackenzie could have lived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(featherlight) String Theory

**Author's Note:**

> Written for another prompt at the Livejournal Ficathon. It supposed what would happen if Mackenzie had never told Will the truth.
> 
> Then this grew into a monster. I hope it makes sense. If not, follow the roman numerals. I suggest reading it through, and then perhaps reading each separate storyline through.
> 
> And if it still is a mess just come yell at me ;)
> 
> Remember! ~ Follow The Roman Numerals.

i.

" _I work thirty feet from the life I could have had if I hadn't been so stupid"_

* * *

 

ii.

Will wakes slowly. It's dawn outside, and the city is coming alive.

A car horn blares on the street below and the body next to him curls up in protest. Her breath hitches and a soft moan escapes, vibrating up her back and through his chest pleasantly. He brushes his eyes open and blinks away the black spots, then digs a hand into the sharp bone of her hip.

"Good morning," he rumbles, pressing a kiss to the top of her spine.

She's quiet beside him and in the gentle dawn her messy fringe obscures her eyes. He's sure they're blinking rapidly, though; grey green irises adjusting to the light. Soon she'll turn to him and slide a hand across his chest and dip her nose into his collarbone, if he's lucky.

"What's the time," she mumbles gently, and her breath puffs against his wrist.

"6:30. The kids will be up soon."

She hums and just as he thinks she'll turn, she swings her legs to the floor and stands. Her phone blinks on the nightstand and she picks it up quickly.

"I'm going to make breakfast," she tells him, and without a second glance, pads from their room.

* * *

 

iii.

He drinks his coffee black most mornings because he lives the life of a masochist.

If he could muster the extra energy needed to sidle to the fridge he'd probably decide to add milk.

As it is he only blinks his eyes open when the first, heady hit of caffeine has seeped through his system, and it is with this renewed energy that he stumbles to a seat and opens his laptop to click through the mornings news.

He reads a quick story on a teachers strike in Mississippi. Then an article on International aid and relief in Japan. He moves his wrist and the mouse hovers over the words Middle East. He clicks. Holds his breath.

No American journalists have been harmed in the last 24 hours.

He lets go of the breath and with a soft sigh closes the computer; stands to stumble out of his chair and down the hallway towards the shower.

* * *

 

iv.

The water is hot, hot, hot,  _fucking hot_ ; scalding down his spine to dip in his back and making him shiver.

The tiles beneath his feet burn and he blinks rapidly against the tiny droplets but then his body acclimatises and the pounding heat becomes soothing and then slim arms wrap around his waist and pull him back.

She's wet and slippery and so, so soft against his body and he can't help but groan, the sound echoing off the tiles, as she slips a hand down his stomach to touch him, hard and hot.

"Morning love," she murmurs, lips fumbling along the arch of his spine.

She's wicked in the mornings, all lithe and soft, and the tilt of her hip always accentuates her coquettish gaze.

"Morning," he grunts, and with a last bout of energy, spines her round to push her up against the wall.

He nips at her top lip, then rumbles, grinning, "My turn."

* * *

 

v.

He dresses quickly in jeans and a jumper and makes his way back into the kitchen.

She's leant against the kitchen counter and he presses a light kiss to her temple as he passes her. She hums gently and with a practiced ease maneuvers out of his way so he can reach the cereal.

She's munching on toast and flicking through the paper and he runs a hand along her waist as he moves to grab a spoon.

"Anything interesting?" he asks. She makes a noise, shaking her head.

He reaches to take the business section from her, because she's never been able to understand even the headlines, and she jerks quickly. He falters; and there's a brief second where they're both locked and tense and everything is as it was four years ago.

"Mackenzie?" he asks quietly, his tone belying the rest of the question. She shuffles but then seems to deflate. Without a word she pushes the rest of the paper towards him.

 _By Bryan Brenner_ , in tiny, black letters, is typed underneath the editorial she was reading.

"It's terrible," she tells him, and he can't help but chuckle.

This thing between them is so fragile sometimes.

When she'd first told him about those four months he'd been white hot with rage, and then so desperately broken, but somehow they'd pieced their relationship back together. Nowadays he almost forgets that they're not held tight by cement, but rather featherlight strings; something small like this could still so easily break them.

It's what makes what they share all the more precious.

"Coffee?" he asks, folding the paper; her resulting smile is grateful.

* * *

ii.

Thomas is counting his marbles and spread out on the floor and he can hear Sophie singing loudly and off key, somewhere in the apartment. Neither child is ready for school.

"Sophie!" he yells, voice echoing down the hall. "We're leaving in five minutes!"

The little girl doesn't stop singing and Will growls in the back of his throat.

He makes his way towards her room and Mackenzie rushes past him towards the kitchen and in the ensuing chaos almost trips on Thomas's school bag, splayed out on the floor.

"Thomas!" she gasps, breathless. "What have I told you about leaving your things on the floor?"

She's dark and fiery and her tone is murderous and Will stops, stunned, at the sharp turn in his wife's demeanour. Thomas is standing by the door, his shirt untucked and his shoelaces tangled, and the little boy looks liable to break into tears; mummy isn't usually this angry.

"Thomas please pack your bag and get ready," Will asks him, his voice soft but without question and the little boy scampers off down the hall.

"Kenz?" he asks, inching forwards.

She turns and her eyes are dark, her brow furrowed. She winces and swallows and then seems to deflate.

"What?" she mumbles, pinching the bridge of her nose.

He watches her a moment, utterly lost, and then steps forward, smoothing a hand down her shoulder. "You've been tense all morning," he mutters. "Tense all week, to be honest. What is it?"

"Just, Bryan. Having him around the office. That's all," she mumbles, words jumbled behind her hand.

Will pauses, uncertain. Bryan Brenner hasn't been part of her life in over eight years, not since he and Mackenzie broke up. But that was well before Will even met her. Is he really that much of an issue?

"I'll get rid of him," Will wants to tell her, but then Sophie has tangled her hair in her brush and her loud cries are only dampened by Thomas' own complaints and Mackenzie darts from under his arm, avoiding his gaze, before he gets the words out.

* * *

 

iv.

They hold hands all the way to the office but when they turn the corner to the ACN building Mackenzie always darts away from him, grinning softly. She teases him, "Best to avoid your fans."

They sign in side by side, the dull scrawl of his name in contrast to her loopy letters, and he likes to think it sums them up nicely. She's the loopy one, he tells her, nudging her hip with his own.

In retaliation she writes McHale with a sly glance towards him and he has to roll his eyes. She refuses to take his name. A fact he understands and respects. But she's never been shy of keeping him on edge and she takes utter delight in taunting him about it.

"Come on, Mr. McAvoy, time for work," she hums, taking his hand again to walk towards the elevator. The gold ring on her hand catches the light and he can't help but smile broadly.

One day they might decide to act like adults, and not love struck fools.

Today will not be that day.

"Yes, Mrs. McAvoy," he rumbles back.

In the privacy of the elevator she punches him in the shoulder.

* * *

 

iii.

Some days he hates the rundown meeting. Okay, most days he hates the rundown meeting.

But on days when their top story is the Middle East he has a dull ache in the pit of his stomach that doesn't go away, no matter how many cigarettes.

Don is always edgy because he knows Will hates those stories, but what Don hates even more is Will's utter reluctance to acknowledge their main source.

"She's good, Will."

"I know," he growls back.

He knows that she's the best in the business, even if she's filing stories from caves. He knows that the news she covers is more important than most of what he spews out at night. He also knows that despite breaking up with her a year ago, it's doesn't hurt any less.

It was no ones fault. They'd merely drifted away. But that still doesn't mean it doesn't fucking  _ache_.

* * *

v.

He follows her up to Charlie's office following the rundown meeting, lost in thought.

She's quiet in the elevator. But he likes that. He likes that they have silences.

Sometimes it feels like all the world ever does is talk. But she lets him breathe and run around in his head and never holds it against him.

He doesn't know if he'll marry her. Once upon a time he'd been so sure. But now it feels like it's neither here nor there.

She's a step ahead of him as they walk down the hallway but then she turns, and stops, and waits. Her smile is soft and he loves her.

They don't need marriage. They just need to keep the featherlight strings, strung.

* * *

 

iii.

"Charlie," he groans. "They don't fucking have a clue what they're doing."

His old friend is quiet and watching him intensely. His bowtie is obscured and has ridiculous purple dots, but the former Marine's arms are crossed and the arch of his eyebrow is calculating.

"Will. Get your head out of your ass. You fucking report that story because it's fucking news. Understood?"

Will ground his jaw and grips the edge of his chair tight but in the end, relents.

"Go to lunch," Charlie tells him softly.

Will grunts.

He needs a cigarette.

* * *

 

v.

Sometimes they share lunch in his office, other times Mackenzie joins Sloan and the girls in her own and Will is left wandering around aimlessly. She always invites him to join them but he's never brave enough to say yes. They're always talking quickly and he never quite understands what any of it means.

But occasionally he sticks a head around her door and catches the end of a sentence, or conversation.

"So you cheated on him?" asks Sloan carefully, and Will winces from where he's hidden. He hates this story.

Mackenzie sighs, "Yes."

"And you told him?"

"Yes."

"And..."

Will rolls his eyes. What does she think fucking happened?

"And we worked through it."

Maggie makes an impressed noise around her sandwich. "I think Don might have done something similar," she whispers softly...and now is the time Will should really step away. He hears enough about the Maggie/Jim/Don/Sloan saga over dinner each night, but then Mackenzie's words catch his attention.

"How did you work through it?" Maggie asks; and Mackenzie replies.

"I have no fucking clue," her English lilt wrapping delicately around the expletive. "But I'm never taking that for granted again."

Will pauses and then knocks, announcing his presence to the group. He doesn't need to hear those words, but that doesn't mean they aren't nice.

He sticks his head around the door and with a grin, crashes their meal.

* * *

ii.

The picture by his computer was taken the afternoon Sophie was born.

Thomas is curled in his lap and he's seated on the bed beside Mackenzie. She has her arms wrapped around a tiny, pink bundle and sometimes it takes his breath away, that the little ball of blankets is now his daughter.

At three years old she's already so loud and lively.

He's holding the photo gently in his hands and it takes him a minute to realise Mackenzie is stood by his door, watching him.

"Hey," he says softly. She's leant against the doorframe but she pushes off it to wander into his room. She looks a little lost, her steps are without aim, and she finally settles against the side of his desk with her gaze low and drawn.

"Kenzie," he whispers, inching his head around to try and catch her glance. She tilts her head up and hums.

He sighs. "What's wrong?"

Her voice, when it comes, is tired and broken and Will feels like everything is falling apart at the seams.

He's not stupid, he's known something has been brewing for months.

He just has no fucking clue how to fix his family.

* * *

 

iv.

"Do you have the report on government spending last election?" she asks casually, swinging in to his office without a glance up and then startling when she realises it isn't empty.

"Oh," she exclaims, and her eyes go wide. Will tries to hide his grin behind his hand.

"Aiden, this is Mackenzie McHale, my executive producer," he tells his friend.

Aiden's eyes lift and he holds out a hand. He spares a confused glance Will's way until he finally adds, "And my wife."

"Pleasure," Aiden greets, shaking her hand quickly.

She returns the greeting and then turns to her husband, raising an expectant eyebrow, and he jolts into action.

"Report. Yes. Here you are." He hands it over.

She hums and then smiles warmly at Aiden, turning on her heel and waving farewell.

* * *

ii.

He picks the kids up from school that afternoon and Thomas stops in the middle of the playground, confused.

"Where's Natalie?" he asks, gripping the straps of his school bag.

"Aren't you happy I'm picking you up instead?" he asks, and Thomas shrugs.

"I guess?"

Sophie is a little more enthusiastic. She runs through the doors of her preschool and barrels into Will's arms, screeching loudly, and by the time he's swung her up into his arms she's already midway through explaining her day.

He holds her close and she smells like acrylic paint, and fresh grass, and underneath that the shampoo Mackenzie bathes them in.

"Ice cream?" he asks the pair, and his voice is rough.

"Does mum have the afternoon off too?" Thomas asks excitedly, bumping his shoulder into Will's knee as he swings his bag.

Will things back to Mackenzie's dead gaze in his office. He'd woken up this morning with his wife pressed close to his heart, and now it feels like his entire world has been turned on its head, leaving him behind.

"No, Tom. Mum's at work."

Thomas makes a face and races ahead of them.

* * *

 

iii.

He emails her because he's an idiot. Because he's a masochist. Because he likes to see if it still hurts.

It does.

_Hey Mackenzie._

_Just checking in with you. I know you're busy, obviously, but drop me a line if you can. I still care._

_Will._

* * *

 

v.

"Shall we have dinner?" he asks her, even though it's only 5 o'clock.

Some days they wait until after the broadcast. Others they grab a quick bite in the newsroom before.

But some days he likes to take her out in the late afternoon. Before the team starts the final mad rush. Before either one of them is expected to perform. They go to a restaurant or a diner and sit side by side and relax.

Her cheeks always blush and she ducks her head when she talks, and he always, always ends up pressed against her.

And he thinks, whatever else they've gone though, this is worth it.

* * *

 

ii.

He hands the kids over to Natalie with a promise to see them after work, and then even though it's the last thing he wants to do, he heads back to work, because he doesn't have a choice.

Finding out your wife cheated on you for four months a year before you were married is apparently not a good enough reason to stop broadcasting the news.

* * *

 

iv.

He eyes her across the conference room as Jim announces the finalised rundown.

She'd brought Jim across from Atlanta after stumbling across him at a conference on reporting on the Middle East.

"He's perfect," she'd told him. "Smart, affable, and a quick learner."

Will had frowned. "He's young."

She'd made a face. "So? I was young."

"Yes but you..."

She'd raised an eyebrow. "I was what, Will?"

And these are the moments when he must tread lightly, lest he break the delicate balance between husband in favour and husband on the couch.

"You were special. You had the wit, and the intelligence, but also the knack for running a show."

She'd hummed, and bit her lip, considering him. "I also have long legs," she'd pondered, leaving him spluttering. "Jim's good, Will. I want him on my team."

And he's never been able to say no to her. Not really.

Not when she'd first started at News Night, or when he'd first started falling in love; not when she'd climbed into his bed that first night, or on the countless others, and wrapped herself around his body. Nor months later, when she'd crawled towards him and whispered into his chest how her ex had started texting her, and how she'd wavered for a moment before realising Will was _so much more_.

Because she loved him.  _Him_. He still can't believe that sometimes.

She could have any man in the world, but she keeps choosing him.

Now, in the conference room, two hours before broadcast, he catches her eye across the table and smiles softly; because she was right.

* * *

 

ii.

She's silent over the headphones. Will is too.

The rest of the team moves in and around them and when she finally asks for a sound test he's quick and precise and without feeling.

The room around them is claustrophobic; tense - because usually she'll tease him about his tie, and he'll tease her about jellyfish and they'll share smiles until he's on air.

They have a routine.

In the break between segments Will lights a cigarette and she remains silent.

_Fuck routine._

* * *

 

iii.

There's footage from a protest in Islamabad on the screen and Will knows that one of her men took it, meaning she was nearby, possibly there.

And he hates, hates, hates more than anything that she's in the middle of this.

Some nights it's like he can't breathe through the fear.

* * *

 

iv.

"Stop," she tells him, plain and simple. He's midway through an interview and yes; he's a little in over his head. Most of the time he listens to her.

"Tap your pen once if you understand."

He knocks the nib against the desk. "Thank you Billy," she mumbles.

They'll have words tonight.

* * *

 

v.

"Good show," she breathes as the dying strains of the news theme sound throughout the studio.

He nods to himself, proud, and it's a nice feeling to go home with.

There are some days he hates himself because of work, but they're few and far between.

"Home?" he asks her, when he meets her by the open door.

She grins bright and fresh. "Home."

* * *

iii.

He's packing up his computer for the night and decides to check his emails one last time.

He doesn't like receiving them on his phone, though it's a necessary evil. Were she here she would roll her eyes and tell him he's being old fashioned, like that was a bad thing.

And then - his breath catches and he stumbles back into his seat.

_Hi Will,_

_It's really good to hear from you. It's tough here, but worth it._

_But I miss home._

_I miss you._

_M_

* * *

 

iv.

The ride home is tense; she's still not forgiven him for ignoring her initial instructions.

"Look Will -"

"Mackenzie -"

They both pause. She sighs.

"You have to listen to me," she implores. He knows that, really. And hell, if this is what they're doomed to argue over for the rest of eternity, then he's actually quite grateful.

"I know," he sighs, and reaching across the expanse of the car grasps her hand.

She spares him a sideways glare but then relents, squeezing back. 

A moment, and then, "I mean it," she grumbles. He chuckles.

After all, some days he swears their marriage is built on the basic premise of her having the last word.

* * *

 

ii.

The kids are rowdy and refuse to go to bed but a few rounds of story time and one very quick lullaby from Will has them both nodding off drowsily, allowing he and Mackenzie to stumble to bed.

It's late and it's awkward, the room is thick with tension. He's torn between the desperate need to sleep and the desperate need to run as far from her as possible.

They end up lying in bed at separate ends, silent.

He thinks he understands why she might have done it. He even understands that it was seven years ago, and that was the end.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he finally sighs, broken.

Her voice is small and scared.

"Because I fell in love with you Will. I was too terrified to let that go."

* * *

 

v.

In the dark her body is soft and warm and pliant; she curls up against him and he drapes an arm around her stomach. Slowly they drift off to sleep.

* * *

 

iii.

He sleeps better that night than in a year.

* * *

 

i.

" _Listen, I swear I'm not saying this because I'm high. If the answer is no, then just do me a favor and don't call me back or bring it up or anything. But I have to tell you— I mean after tonight, I really want to tell you that I never stopped -"_


End file.
